I Am Dressed Chill

I am dressed chill in leaves on rill of bone
cold night spread against our rise. In the gleam
of moon I am your harvest, warming stone
in winter, shielding shivers in a dream
of starry skin underneath the season
of our discontent. Fronds dip. The tropics
yield in ocean me. There is no reason,
no logic nor wanting talk, for topics
fail to speak in the slurp of murmur. Care
ceases in the hiss, in the wind of breath
knit into the grass rustle and the air,
look you, awakens in the little death
of autumn, clear as eyes, as the pale kiss
of fragile blood frozen still after bliss.